


A Box of Matches

by Avocadow



Category: Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury
Genre: Content warnings:, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicide, i promise there are nice things in this fic too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27769261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avocadow/pseuds/Avocadow
Summary: After Captain Beatty reveals a devastating cancer diagnosis, he and Montag rush to enjoy the little time they have left together.
Relationships: Captain Beatty/Guy Montag
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this 5-ish years ago and just remembered it exists, so here you go. i do not remember anything that happens, and i apologize in advance

The station was crushed by the weight of the news.

The Captain had laughed it off. “After all, that which does not kill us makes us stronger.” He smiled, and the whole station laughed together. Yet there was something melancholy in his eyes as he spoke, and his smile was not quite at the correct angle, and the relieved chorus of laughter rang thick with anxious discord. The throng pretended to be at ease, safe in knowing that the Captain would be all right. Soon, everything would begin again as normal. An outsider wouldn’t even know that anything had passed. They would play poker as they always had, burn books as they always had, throw unsuspecting animals to the Mechanical Hound as they always had. The Captain would lead as he always had, and they would follow him as they always had.

Nobody could convince themselves of this. Not after the Captain had shared the unthinkable. He had arrived at the station late, which surprised the firemen, especially Montag. The Captain practically lived at the firehouse; he spent more time there than any other fireman. Still, he arrived late, and even more strangely, he had brought beer for everyone. “Sorry I’m late, boys; I had a bit of an incident this morning.” He said it a little too fast, and at that fatal word, _incident_ , Montag saw how tightly Captain Beatty gripped the carton of beer and the dark circles that had appeared under his eyes. The Captain caught his eye and quickly continued. “Everyone, grab a drink and sit down. There’s something I need to tell you.”

Somehow, Montag knew what was coming before it was even said. Even with the current technology, cancer was a mystery to doctors and patients alike. As the Captain calmly explained that tumors had taken over his lungs like some kind of foreign army, Montag didn’t know whether to mourn or to celebrate. After all, Beatty was his Captain. Montag had always enjoyed a good relationship with Beatty, and sometimes he felt closer to the Captain than to any of the other firemen in his squad. He thought back to a conversation with Clarisse, when they had rubbed dandelions under their chin to see if they were in love. Clarisse had passed the test: her chin was covered in soft yellow dust. Montag’s chin, however, came out completely bare.

He had begun to reconsider his relationship with Mildred at that point. Were they happy together? It didn’t seem like it. After all, she spent more time with the “family” in the parlor than with Montag himself. Montag then considered Clarisse. Did she love him? Did he love her? No, it was all wrong; she was far too young and far too clear for muddled old Montag. And then, of course, Montag came to a realization: he was queer. Women! Women were the problem; no matter what, he just couldn’t seem to stick with them. They complained about children and husbands and seemed so silly and dull. Even Clarisse, with her peculiarities, was no match: she confused Montag, asking him difficult questions and pointing things out that were better left alone.

And then he noticed Beatty…Beatty, his age-old friend, his employer, his Captain. Montag began to notice the curvature of the Captain’s muscular arms, a side effect of being a fireman for years and years. He began to notice not only the gleaming Phoenix on the Captain’s hat, but the face underneath of it: the shining, intelligent cerulean eyes, the sculpted cheekbones, the bulky nose, the lips that twisted into a coy smirk. More and more often, Montag found himself staring at Beatty’s impressive figure. He wondered if Beatty noticed, and if so, did he reciprocate Montag’s feelings?

Montag noticed changes in his own body as well. Whenever Beatty was near, he felt a burning in his cheeks, a tightness in his chest. He breathed faster, and he had to fight to keep a smile away. He felt as if he were on the verge of exploding, bursting with an emotion, possibly love? He didn’t know.

On the other hand, however, were the books. Montag couldn’t stop his hands from picking them up; they were on the ground, burning, and then suddenly one would end up in his hands. He must have had twenty or thirty of the damned things by now. Who knows how many more he would collect until he was caught? By now it wasn’t a question of _if_ he would be caught, but _when_. Montag had even done the unthinkable, actually _reading_ passages of different books to see if he could understand them. Of course he couldn’t, but something inside of him urged him to keep reading, keep trying to learn their forbidden wisdom. One day, he knew Mildred would catch him. If not her, then it would be someone else, a neighbor or perhaps one of Millie’s friends that visited from time to time. Either way, he would be caught reading, and then reported, and then burned, and then arrested. It was inevitable.

Unless Beatty was out of the picture. If Beatty died, then Montag could rally and campaign and plead and pray to be the new Captain. If his hard work paid off, then he would be Captain, and he would have control over the burning of the houses. If his own home was reported, he could simply throw away the report. If anyone asked, he could claim it was faulty. Even better, he could burn the snitch’s house and teach them a lesson. He could be both a fireman and an intellectual, just like Captain Beatty. He would no longer be in any danger.

Conflicted, Montag watched Beatty speak, not really listening anymore. His hands, so firm and weathered, moved to help him tell his story. Montag noticed that no beers had been left for the Captain. He watched Beatty’s lips move, wondering how they would feel against his own. Beatty’s eyes were the hardest to look at. Those pitiful blue things seemed to be screaming, screaming about…what? Montag blinked, and what he had before seen as melancholy had become undone into mystery. Was Beatty upset about the cancer? He had to have been. It didn’t seem like he had much time left, after all. Maybe it was happiness Montag was seeing in those eyes. Yes, of course, Beatty was glad to have friends to be surrounded by in such trying times. The firemen were Beatty’s friends…right?

“After all, that which does not kill us makes us stronger,” Beatty’s voice said, sailing smoothly into Montag’s ears. Beatty smiled, his crooked lips pushed together, and Montag found himself smiling back. Surrounding laughter echoed around him, and Beatty used the opportunity to end the speech. “All right, all of you. There are still fires to be made, no? Let’s not waste today. Get to work!”

Black, Stoneman, and the other firemen shuffled away. Montag was among the stragglers, and just before he stepped out the door he heard Beatty’s deep, soothing voice enter his head again. “Montag. Stay back with me. I want to speak with you alone.”

At once, Montag felt a kind of confused panic rise within him. What was it that the Captain could possibly want from him?

Beatty’s eyes, both icy and aflame, searched Montag’s face, as if searching for a weakness. Finally, they locked onto Montag’s own eyes, and Montag saw something resolute in Beatty’s countenance. After what seemed like years, Beatty spoke. “What is there about fire that’s so lovely? No matter what age we are, what draws us to it?” As if to illustrate his point further, Beatty pulled a matchbook from his pocket, selected a match, and lit it, holding it between the two of them. The flame was so small, so innocuous, and Montag watched as it burned ever closer to the Captain’s strong, capable fingers, the fire’s light dancing on Beatty’s skin.

Montag looked from Beatty to the fire, then back to Beatty. “I…I don’t know, sir.”

Beatty blew the match out, dropped it, picked out another one and lit it. “It’s perpetual motion; the thing man wanted to invent but never did. Or almost perpetual motion. If you let it go, it’d burn our lifetimes out.” He blew it out. “I believe love is much the same way.”

“Excuse me?” Montag asked abruptly, his heart rate speeding up. He felt powerless as his cheeks burned and sparks flew in his stomach. His own body was betraying him.

“I’ve seen you staring at me, Montag; don’t try to deny it. Things between you and Mildred must be bad. You two must hardly speak to each other. After all, ‘the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.’” Beatty sighed, looking down at the cold grey floor of the firehouse. “Truth be told, I never really thought about how you looked at me. I noticed, sure, but I never considered what it meant, for you as well as me. Of course, after I was diagnosed, well…‘love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

Beatty stepped closer, stroking Montag’s cheek with the back of his hand. “You’ve been on my mind, Montag,” he whispered, almost in a trance.

For the first time, Montag noticed the pattern in Beatty’s eyes, how the cerulean background was penetrated by streaks of powder-blue and white, veins of lightning on a stormy sky. It electrified Montag, and he became hypersensitive of the places where he and Beatty touched. Beatty pulled Montag forward slowly, carefully, as if Montag would shatter if he moved too recklessly. It became agony for Montag to wait for the feeling on Beatty’s lips on his own.

And then they connected, a current flowing from Beatty to Montag and back to Beatty. Montag closed his eyes, drinking in the slow and steady pleasure with his other senses. Montag’s breathing matched Beatty’s, and with every breath he smelled the sweet aroma of kerosene and ashes. It was perfection, pure perfection, and the stolen books were swept from Montag’s mind, as well as the fact that Beatty was dying. All that mattered was that moment, the two men locked together, both so sublimely happy.

The next moment came smoothly. They glided apart, and Beatty’s eyes were full of wild hunger. Before Montag had time to collect himself, Beatty launched himself at the other fireman, all caution thrown to the wind. Montag was pushed up against the wall as their lips seared together, and his head was flooded with the smell of kerosene. The first kiss had been the storm that ignited a conflagration, the inferno that was the second kiss. Beatty had a fire burning bright within him, and Montag was the fuel that kept it going. Their bodies were smoke, their hands hot to touch. Montag felt a tight, warm sensation in his trousers, rubbing against Beatty. The Captain backed away, breathing hard, and Montag leaned against the cool, hard wall, gasping for air. 

“Not here,” Beatty said gruffly, and was overcome by a coughing fit. He doubled over, coughing violently, the back of his hand covering his mouth. When it was over, he straightened, gripping onto a table for support. His hand was spotted with blood. He looked at it, and Montag saw Beatty’s fire become extinguished.

Beatty looked back at Montag, wiping his hand on his shirt. “Not here,” he repeated. His voice was hoarse. “Come to my house. Tomorrow afternoon. We’ll talk then.” Beatty waved his hand, and Montag realized he was being dismissed.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right, sir?” Montag asked, punctured by the claws of worry.

“I’ll be fine. ‘Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.’” Beatty let out a breath, adding, “And don’t call me ‘sir’.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw sex? graphic sex? i don't know how content warnings work on this site i'm so sorry

That night, Montag couldn’t sleep. His head was swirling with what had been set in motion the instant Beatty’s lips met his own. It was so unexpected, and yet it felt right somehow. Even as Mildred lay next to him, little blue Seashells plugged into her ears, immune to the outside world, Montag’s mind wouldn’t let Beatty go. Every so often, he would remember how they ignited each other, the smell of kerosene circling their heads like a halo, and he would smile to himself.

Was this love? Was this what used to be spoken about so reverently, held above all else? Nobody talked about love, not now. People didn’t have the time; death and destruction had claimed the hearts of the people now. Not more than a month ago, Montag had been one of the masses; he was at his happiest when he was watching a pile of books surrender to the heat, their pages curling in agony. But Beatty…the Captain had overwhelmed his thoughts so quickly and completely, just from the previous day’s encounter. The books had never filled him with pleasure as pure as this. Beatty would probably have a quote for it. Beatty had a quote for everything, after all.

They hadn’t spoken much after the kiss. Beatty disappeared to recover after his coughing fit, and for Montag there was work to be done. A kerosene valve on one of the Salamanders had jammed, and Montag had to repair it. It took him twice as long as it should have. The scent constantly reminded him of the Captain, and his emotions soared, fueled by love and fumes. He was elated, and he had a difficult time hiding it. Montag even heard rumors that Beatty had named him to be the next Captain, though of course that wasn’t true. Montag might have wanted to be Captain at one point, but his desires had changed. He no longer wanted to control the blaze; he wanted to be swept up in it, as much a victim of passion as the books doused in kerosene and set alight.

Montag, of course, kept his newfound desires secret. The other firemen had no idea of what had truly transpired when Montag and Beatty were alone.

Of course, there was the poker game. Beatty sat down across from Montag, the closest they had been since the kiss. All throughout, Montag had a terrible time of focusing on the game. Embers crackled in his stomach whenever his own eyes met Beatty’s, and a smile was constantly tugging at the corners of his lips. At one point, Montag thought he felt Beatty’s foot reach out, touch his own, and he felt like he was floating on hot air. When Beatty said, “You ought to work on that poker face, Montag. I can read you like a book,” Montag had to excuse himself from the table.

Even now, hours later, Montag grinned to himself as he recalled the memory. Whoever thought that poker could be so exciting? Another memory transitioned its way into his head, and suddenly he was taken back to his first conversation with Clarisse. The question she had asked, that offending, injurious inquiry, rang in his head like the hollow chime of a bell: _Are you happy?_ Lying under the covers, he silently dared Clarisse to ask again. She couldn’t catch him off guard like before; now he had a certain, resolute response. Of course he was happy.

But how long would it last? The cancer came creeping into his thoughts, pulling him out of the past and into reality. What if this was all over in a few short months? Hell, what if they had just _weeks_? Montag felt an ugly panic rise within him, dousing the sparks in his belly and frosting his emotions. For the first time in his whole life, he felt like he could see with clarity, felt like he was finally _living_ , not just existing. He felt happy. He didn’t want to lose what he had just found.

And what of the books? They were intruders in his home, parasites that did no harm, and yet he couldn’t dispose of them any more than Beatty could dispose of the tumors in his lungs. What if Beatty found out? Their relationship couldn’t continue. The Captain would have Montag burned and arrested, and surely the Captain would die soon afterwards. Montag couldn’t have that. And yet, no matter how long he thought, how much he rationalized, he couldn’t sacrifice the books, not even for Beatty. There was something lost in them, something that Montag wanted desperately to find out, just as desperately as he wanted to be with Beatty.

Montag fell into an uneasy sleep, full of fear for the future. His chest was frozen tight, frozen shut.

It was after his shift when Montag found himself at Beatty’s doorstep. He had only been to Beatty’s house twice before, and both times it had struck Montag as an odd place to live. It was more mansion than simple home. On the outside, it boasted an elegant façade framed by a carefully manicured lawn. A beautiful mahogany door served as the gateway to the home’s interior, which was filled with high ceilings, expensive furniture, and a state-of-the-art parlor, featuring everything one could possibly desire. The huge brick building seemed to loom before Montag as he stood in front of the door, wondering if this was a bad idea. Suddenly, the very question of whether he should knock or ring the doorbell was too much.

The question vaporized itself in his mind as the mahogany door swung open. Beatty stood in the doorway, and Montag could see he was trying to hide his nerves. “Welcome, Montag,” he said, extending his hand in a welcoming gesture. “Please, come in.”

Montag stepped inside, and it crossed his mind that Beatty was the only one living in this enormous home. Had he always lived alone?

“I saw you coming up, and I thought I’d get the door,” Beatty spoke, his rich voice easily filling the cavernous space. “I had cameras installed a while back. Sometimes it’s good to have an extra layer of security, don’t you agree, Montag?”

“Uh, of course,” replied Montag, viewing the house through new eyes. When he had visited before, there had always been crowds of people surrounding him. Now that it was just him and Beatty, it seemed vastly different. “Do you—have you always lived alone?”

Beatty chuckled. “‘All great and precious things are lonely’, Montag. I’ve never found another person with whom I could agreeably live with.” Beatty’s strong, deft fingers brushed down Montag’s arm, meeting Montag’s own fingers after what seemed like an eternity. “We’ll see if you’re the exception.”

Beatty pulled Montag in closer, cupping his face with his other hand, and before Montag knew what was happening their lips were sealed against each other’s. He could feel Beatty’s uneven breaths against his skin, taste the sweet taste of Beatty’s mouth. Montag’s head was filled with the familiar smell of kerosene and…something else? It was something metallic, something that Montag couldn’t identify. A small seed of worry planted itself deep in Montag’s gut, but he chose to ignore it, favoring the overwhelming power of the kiss. The two pulled away, Beatty’s icy eyes hungry for more. “Come on,” he growled, leading Montag to the bedroom.

It didn’t take them long to resume. While their lips were busy, Montag’s hands found a new use, untucking Beatty’s thin cotton shirt and sliding his hands underneath. They explored the hard, pulsing muscle with eagerness, every crevice offering a new feeling, a new sensation. The feeling of warm skin on Montag’s fingers accelerated his heart rate even more, elevating him to a new level of desire. Beatty reacted as well, his own hands guiding Montag’s to pull off his shirt, revealing the burly landscape of Beatty’s chest. Montag moved closer, his mouth veering from Beatty’s lips down his neck, lingering on his collarbone, then continuing onward, down the other man’s chest. Beatty placed Montag’s hand on his crotch, where Montag felt Beatty’s member straining against the confining fabric of his pants. In another moment Montag’s fingers had loosened Beatty’s belt, and Beatty slid his pants down, becoming completely unclothed. Montag knew what to do; his mouth continued down Beatty’s abdomen until Montag’s lips rested on the tip of Beatty’s cock. Montag looked up, meeting Beatty’s eyes, and Beatty nodded, just slightly.

With sudden clarity, Montag realized he had never blown someone off before. What was he supposed to do? What did Beatty want him to do? Beatty must have felt Montag’s hesitation and groaned, “Oh God, don’t stop now, Montag, don’t stop.” Spurred on by his Captain’s sudden encouragement, Montag decided to experiment. He took the head somewhat clumsily into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the slit. It was an odd experience, having another man’s cock in his mouth, but Montag quickly got used to it. He massaged his lips around Beatty’s cock, slowly traveling up and down the shaft. Beatty moaned, rocking his hips along with the movement, even grasping the back of Montag’s head, burying his fingers in Montag’s thick hair. He pushed Montag’s head, gradually speeding up the movement. Montag felt a bit overwhelmed, but he went along, trying not to rub his teeth against Beatty’s cock. When he did, just slightly, Beatty groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and whispered, “Oh God, oh fuck, Montag, I’m going to cum, I’m going to—”

Beatty cried out, his voice hoarse with pleasure, as Montag felt a thick, warm liquid hit the back of his throat. He choked, torn between swallowing it or spitting it out, and the stuff dribbled down his chin, mixed with his saliva. He pulled himself from Beatty’s cock and stood up, roughly wiping the cum off of his chin. Beatty was breathing hard, tightly gripping the edge of his bed for support.

And suddenly, the enormity of what Montag had done came to him, like a warhead dropped in his thoughts. He was a married man, for Christ’s sake! As much apathy as he felt for her, he had failed Mildred, and he knew it. “Oh God, oh God,” he murmured, feeling something akin to shame, the words skating over the salty taste of Beatty’s cum in his mouth. 

Beatty was saying something about lube, as if they were going to take it to the next step, but after seeing Montag’s face he backed down. He got dressed, then helped Montag to his feet. “What’s the matter?” he asked, concern etched into the hard crevices in his face.

Montag sighed. “I have to—I have to tell Mildred. I’m sorry, I should go…”

“Nonsense!” Beatty said, clasping Montag’s shoulder. “We can be happy together, Montag, we…” He trailed off, seeing the worry, the shame betrayed in Montag’s expression. He thought for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Montag. I know about the books. _Your_ books.”

An alarm bell went off in Montag’s head. He had been a fool to come here, to think that this could really work! Icy panic rose within him, and he felt tendrils of frost enveloping his insides, leaving him numb. Cheating on Mildred had been immoral; owning books would be his downfall. “What…how….I…” he sputtered, unable to complete a sentence.

And yet, Beatty’s face wasn’t malicious or disappointed or anything else that Montag dreaded. In fact, it seemed almost…hopeful. “‘The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them’, so they say. Don’t leave yet, Montag. There’s something I need to show you. Follow me.” Beatty started walking out of the bedroom and toward the parlor.

“I’m not in trouble?” Montag asked, incredulous, not quite daring to believe it. “You won’t burn me, arrest me?”

They stopped in the parlor. Beatty turned around to face the other fireman. “Montag, do you know what I see in you?” he asked.

What kind of a question was that? “I…I don’t know,” Montag replied, unsure of how to answer.

“It’s obviously not your intelligence,” Beatty said, chuckling. Montag wasn’t sure whether to take it as a joke or an insult. “No,” Beatty said, “it’s the books. There are so few people out there who are tempted by them, let alone actually taking and reading them. You don’t understand what they mean, do you?”

“I want to,” Montag answered, feeling a little more confident. “It’s been driving me mad. I read and read, and I don’t understand a thing!”

“It’s the desire to know, the need for understanding, that sets you apart, Montag,” Beatty said. “When people ask, I say that they’re empty. That the words mean absolutely nothing. But Montag, ‘nothing unites two people so completely, especially if, like you and me, all they have is words.’ I can show you what they mean. I can show you love, the kind that is all but extinct today.”

“You mean to say you’ve read books?” Montag gasped. He couldn’t believe it. A Fire Chief, of all people, loving books…it was ludicrous. It was something so ridiculous, so impossibly believable, that it had to be true.

Beatty didn’t answer. He walked over to one of the parlor walls, braced his hands across the surface, and pushed. The wall gave way, retreating like a wounded predator. A staircase was left in its place, leading down to some secret basement chamber. Beatty held out his hand, inviting Montag to plunge into the unknown. “Go ahead,” Beatty said. “‘A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.’ Or in this case, a single stairwell.”

Slowly, Montag made his descent, each step leaving him more and more anxious. He could hear Beatty’s heavy footsteps behind him, and he sensed that Beatty was nervous, much more than he was letting on. The air ahead was musty, thick with the scent of something unknowingly familiar. He filled his lungs with the smell, desperate to become acquainted with its source.

Suddenly, the stairs were gone, and an endless room stretched before Montag’s eyes. Shelves upon shelves of books presented themselves, each more tantalizing than the last. Here and there, cushioned chairs could be found, some with books surrounding them, others completely bare. Montag wandered up and down the aisles, looking at the feast of different titles, authors, genres, colors, sizes, _books_. He had never seen so many in one place before. He desperately wanted to escape, and yet he could do nothing but linger, taking in the death throes of a world that came before. Finally, he found Beatty sitting in one of a pair of chairs, watching Montag with interest. “What is this place?” Montag asked, his voice filled with awe.

Beatty grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s a library.”

“But you’re a Fire Chief!” Montag protested. “How can you have all these books? Here, in your house?”

“‘The greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.’ Nobody knows about this place except for you and me.” There was a sadness in Beatty’s eyes as he said this, as if he wished the library didn’t have to be secret.

A silence passed between them; Montag working to comprehend his surroundings, Beatty watching him. It broke when Montag asked Beatty a question. “Will you read to me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Beatty answered. “Go pick a book; any one will do. I’ll read as long as you like.”

Montag didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. He didn’t dare go too far for fear of losing Beatty. Two aisles down from where Beatty sat, Montag began to run his fingertips across the spines of the books, an outsider’s caress. He didn’t want to know the title of the book or what it was about; he wanted to pick one at random. Montag closed his eyes, his fingers gliding back and forth across the shelf, eventually grabbing their prey. It was a thin book, a paperback, colored red as blood with a skull on the front. Montag was intrigued. He returned to Beatty, placed the book in his hands, and sat in the chair next to him.

Beatty glanced at the cover. “An interesting choice,” he remarked. “Still, a good one. It was a classic before society stopped valuing books.” He opened the book, flipping to the first page. His eyes met Montag’s, and Beatty said, “You know, technically we’re both breaking the law.”

“Good,” Montag said, eager to begin. “I want to learn, no matter the cost.”

Beatty smiled, his eyes returning to the yellowed page. He cleared his throat, then started reading.

_All this happened, more or less. The war parts, anyway, are pretty much true. One guy I knew really was shot in Dresden for taking a teapot that wasn't his. Another guy I knew really did threaten to have his personal enemies killed by hired gunmen after the war. And so on. I've changed all the names. I really did go back to Dresden with Guggenheim money (God love it) in 1967. It looked a lot like Dayton, Ohio, more open spaces than Dayton has. There must be tons of human bone meal in the ground. I went back there with an old war buddy, Bernard V. O'Hare, and we made friends with a taxi driver, who took us to the slaughterhouse where we had been locked up at night as prisoner of war. His name was Gerhard Müller. He told us that he was a prisoner of the Americans for a while. We asked him how it was to live under Communism, and he said that it was terrible at first, because everybody had to work so hard, and because there wasn't much shelter or food or clothing. But things were much better now. He had a pleasant little apartment, and his daughter was getting an excellent education. His mother was incinerated in the Dresden fire-storm. So it goes…_


	3. Chapter 3

And so it went on. They decided on a routine: every Tuesday, Montag found himself knocking on the impressive mahogany door, and every Tuesday, Beatty was there, ready to take his hand and lead him inside. Beatty’s fickle health determined what the night consisted of. If he felt good, then they would have a rousing time; if he felt ill, it was enough to sit in his company and read a book. Montag relished every motion in the Captain’s kerosene breath. His voice was smoldering, burning words off the paper as soon as he read them, each sentence an inferno, each page a conflagration. Montag could feel the heat deep inside him, such a contrast to how cold he felt at home.

Sometimes, they decided to forgo both the sex and the books and tell their own stories to each other. Montag learned more than he could ever imagine about Beatty: that he had graduated at the top of his class, that his parents wanted him to join the military, that he knew he had to go to the Academy instead. It was, after all, the only way he could protect his books. “My parents, being bibliophiles themselves, were dismayed,” he admitted, fumes of scorn wafting off his voice. “They said that I was no longer their son, that I was _barbaric_. We haven’t spoken since.” He smiled, smoke practically escaping from his lips. His chilly eyes were frosted with resentment. He laughed, a dragon’s laugh. “Of course, I probably should have listened to them, knowing what I do now about the effects of smoke on one’s lungs. ‘A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time’, yes, but how have I lived? Certainly not fully, in any case. I’ve spent years destroying the things I love, and now they’re killing me.”

Beatty did this sometimes; waxed on and on about how _morose_ life was. Montag couldn’t stand it. It made him feel so miserable, so helpless, still only a fraction of whatever Beatty felt. The first time Beatty mentioned death, all Montag could do was sit and listen and wonder how long they still had together. This time, however, he was prepared. His own books had given him the power that he needed, the courage to say something. “Don’t think like that, Captain. ‘Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.’”

Their eyes met. Beatty looked impressed, even reignited. “Napoleon, eh? You’ve been reading about history.” He looked away, his fingers dancing along the end of his chair. “You’re right. ‘A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer.’” He sighed, looked back. “I’m glad you’re here, Montag.”

He hesitated, and they found themselves looking at one another. Montag drank in Beatty’s every feature as if he had been dying of thirst, left parched for too long. His eyes traveled past each gentle crevasse of Beatty’s face, climbing past his carefully carved lips, summiting his chiseled nose until finally reaching his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes. He stood up, advancing on Beatty, who didn’t resist when Montag straddled him. Montag was driven by an unstoppable force; he needed a closer look, his mind set on memorizing every minute detail of Beatty’s eyes.

He was not disappointed. So much could be held in those two blue horizons, a type of detail that even the most talented artists could only hope to achieve. Angry sapphire streaks skirmished amongst themselves, leaving rivers of pale white blood to adorn a cerulean battlefield. And yet there was a peacefulness to it all, a promise held deep within those royal spheres that eventually, everything would be all right. Even with all that had happened, all that was happening, Montag couldn’t help but feel calm.

And then his lips locked with Beatty’s. The calm was swiftly washed away by a flood of excitement, of longing, of love. His ears buzzed with an energy previously unknown to Montag; the intoxicating taste of the Captain on his lips only heightened it. His hands gently wrapped around Beatty’s head. His fingers delighted in the soft feeling of Beatty’s hair, eagerly exploring, seeking to be satisfied. The inflammatory scent of kerosene surrounded them; with each breath Montag felt his insides catching aflame. And yet, there was another smell, growing stronger all the time: a chemical odor that caught deep in his throat, threatening to choke him, to take his very life. But still, they passionately continued, caught between each other.

They decided to include Thursdays in their weekly routine.

Things at home, regrettably, were not so blissful. Mildred had become aware of _something_ ; Montag dearly hoped that she would get no farther. Over the weeks, she grew had almost grown into an entirely new person. In any case, she was certainly a stranger to Montag. They didn’t talk, and when they did, they resorted to fighting. Indeed, they had mastered the art of the argument, from passive-aggressive murmurs to full-fledged shouting. Mildred would demand to know where Montag went; Montag responded by insulting the Family. Mildred would scream that they gave her more company than he ever had; Montag commented that she had never been smart enough for him anyway. Mildred made accusations, some extreme, some worryingly close to the truth. She even claimed that he smelled different, although Montag couldn’t imagine where she had gotten that. Hadn’t he always smelled like kerosene? To him, Mildred had grown colder and colder, whereas Beatty only ignited him.

And then there were the dreams. Smoky, full of ash and fire; an unsettled blaze, shifting, shifting. There were hands that touched him, wouldn’t leave him be, burning his flesh into crumpling cinders. The heat was insufferable, an influx of indulgence, an innocent interest interned into inferno. Chalky charcoal filled his lungs; he suffocated on nothing, on everything. Fumes, fumes all around; sparks furiously flurried, building into an eruption, too hot, too hot, damn it! Pleasure ripping through every nerve, the cry of a sinner leaving his lips, all feeling beaten out of him, a smoky aftertaste. He woke, clutching at an invisible lover, a moan caught in his throat. Beside him, Mildred slept soundly.

Beatty offered some comfort, if not the best advice. “Well,” he began after listening to Montag rant. “You and I both knew this would become a problem. Still, I must admit this is not my area of...expertise. ‘Fear both the heat and the cold of your heart,’ Montag, ‘and try to have patience, if you can.’”

“What does that even mean?” an exasperated Montag asked.

“You have to remember that no matter what you think of her, you are the one who began this conflict,” Beatty said. “And before you look at me like that, you said you wanted my advice, not my sympathies. If you would rather me not bludgeon you with the truth, all you have to do is ask.” His words were kind, if not very welcome.

“No...no, it’s good for me to hear,” Montag admitted. “It’s just that I wish things didn’t have to be this way. You were smart; you never let anyone into your life before. If Mildred would just...I don’t know, disappear, life would be better.”

“Well, she isn’t here now,” said Beatty bluntly. “Come, let’s make the most of our time.”

Time was a resource that the Captain dare not squander. On top of everything, Beatty’s condition was quickly deteriorating. He tried to deny it, to soldier on, but there were signs. The coughing ground his voice to gravel, and blood often offered a crimson compliment to his lips, to his clothes. The metallic smell increasingly drove away the kerosene, until it seemed that Beatty was more chemical than charcoal. Above all else, he seemed _tired_. The bags under his eyes turned to caverns, and his skin became yellowed and dull. It was almost as if there was something inside of him, eating him alive until there was nothing left. The light began to leave his eyes, fading until there was barely a spark remaining. The days he came to work were few and far between, and even when he was there he rarely left his office.

What made it truly unbearable, however, was how little everyone seemed to care. In fact, the life of the station seemed more intact than ever before. There were still raucous games of cards, delightful rounds of book-burning, crooked bets placed on how well animals would fare against the Hound. The firemen were more preoccupied with who would become the next Captain than with Beatty’s health. To them, Beatty already seemed to be dead.

Beatty insisted that Montag still partake in the daily misadventures of the station. “The last thing we need are their suspicions,” he grumbled.

“But Bea—sir, they’re so _disrespectful_! You can’t expect me to go out there and pretend that everything is normal. It’s not! I just...I can’t stand it. You’re our Captain, and they all seem to have forgotten! They don’t care about you. Everything’s just a game to them. I can’t do it, Captain, I just can’t,” Montag protested. His stomach was filled with dread; everything about the other firemen made him feel sick.

A flash of anger ignited Beatty’s fiery eyes. “Really? This is too hard for you? How do you think _I_ feel, hearing the things they say? These men were once my comrades, my ‘band of brothers’. Now, they are little more than strangers. If you asked me to tell you who they are, I could not answer. ‘You see, I could conceive death, but I could not conceive betrayal.’ The only reason they think of me at all is because I have not yet named a new Captain. Once that is done, I will truly be dead and buried to them.”

“But I’m not like them! Why should I have to act like nothing has changed, like I’m one of them? I’d rather be here, with you!” Montag cried.

“You have a duty, Montag!” growled Beatty. “When you graduated from the Academy, the moment you became a fireman, you took an oath. Like it or not, that means you have to get out there and be a fireman, even when you’d prefer not to. Do you honestly believe that if I had the choice I would be here, at the station, right now? Of course not. Besides,” he added, his voice shrinking to a harsh whisper, “it’s bad enough that we’re breaking fraternization regulations. If we were to be found out, Montag, imagine how much more they might discover!”

“Then tell them who you’ve chosen to be the new Captain.” A plan began to dawn on Montag. “Do that, and you won’t have to be here anymore. I’ll resign, and you can live out your life with me. Think of how much happier we’ll be!”

“Don’t be foolish.” Beatty’s lips twisted into a grimacing scowl. “That’s completely unreasonable, and you know it.”

Montag shook his head. “But it’s not! This could happen, this week even! Beatty, think of how soon our lives could change! ‘A life without love—’”

“‘—is like a sunless garden’, I’m aware.” Beatty cut him off, and Montag felt a chill pass through the room. “What about Mildred?”

Montag shrugged. “Divorce. Hell, it’s not like our relationship isn’t heading there anyway.”

“I see. So you’re suggesting that I step down, you resign, and you and Mildred get a divorce all in the same week. How will this not raise eyebrows?”

“It doesn’t have to happen all in the same week!” Montag insisted, growing increasingly defensive. “Why are you so worried about them coming after us? You’ve been a good Captain, and I certainly haven’t made any enemies. They have no reason to hurt us. Why are you so against this idea?”

“We’re breaking the rules, and among people like this? Who knows what could happen?” Beatty snarled. “It’s not about being happy; it’s about being safe!”

“‘Those who surrender liberty for security deserve neither one!’” Montag yelled. “If you have any better ideas, feel free to share!”

“I want you to be Captain, Montag!” The words came out before Beatty could stop them, before Beatty could even think about them. They hung in the space between the two men, growing enormous in the empty air. The office seemed to swell around them, and the firemen suddenly felt small. Beatty took in a wheezing breath, then repeated himself, with much more control over the words. “I want you to be Captain.”

Montag was frozen in place. The silence was deafening him. He didn’t care. All he could feel was the heavy burden of responsibility on his shoulders, threatening to snap his spine in two. Slowly, his thoughts collected, like metal pieces being drawn to a magnet. After what felt like years, he managed to speak. “Beatty, I can’t.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, falling to the floor with an almost audible _plop_.

Beatty shook his head. “Don’t say that. You’re the only one who has stayed by my side, even in these trying times. ‘In the small matters trust the mind, in the large ones the heart.’ My heart is telling me that there is no other choice but you.”

“But...what will happen to _us_?” Montag asked. He couldn’t bear to think of the future, not for a second. In his mind, all he saw was him and Beatty, together for the rest of their lives. There was no Mildred, no firemen, no responsibility, just the two of them, surrounded by towers and towers of books, more books than had ever been published. They could read to each other for an eternity.

“You already know the answer,” Beatty said softly.

Montag looked at his feet, looked at Beatty, nodded slightly. If it would make Beatty happy, he decided, he would go along with this plan. “I’ll...go tell everyone the news,” Montag mumbled.

Beatty smiled, relieved. “Thank you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide

The news went over about as well as Montag thought it would. He stepped out of Beatty’s office, swallowed his pride, and strode down the empty hallway that led to the rec room. For a moment he held back, gathering his thoughts. How had this happened? Just months ago, he was a completely different person. Practically a shell, now that he thought about it. He lived because he had to, going through the motions of life without appreciating any of it. That was how the other firemen lived; they were hollow human beings, living empty lives. They never felt the insatiable itch of curiosity, the intolerable burden of sadness, the intoxicating heat of love. Just thinking about it, Montag was filled with pity. Was the whole world really this empty?

Montag wondered if Beatty had ever been that way. Was there a time when Beatty had been blissfully ignorant, or had he always been so tragically intellectual? Perhaps, Montag thought, that was what the books did. Perhaps everyone started off as partial beings, and were made whole through the centuries of stories that came before. Or was it something else? Was it contact with other beings, to look into another’s eyes and see their soul within, that made people whole? Montag didn’t know.

These were the thoughts that clouded his head as he entered the rec room. There they were, the happy hollow humans. Eventually, Montag got their attention, until everyone in the room had their eyes on him. He uttered his announcement slowly, carefully, each word dropping like a stone out of the air. He could almost hear them hit the ground, _thunk, thunk, thunk_. “I have just been informed of important news. After Captain Beatty’s...death, I am to be the new Captain.” The word _death_ was especially loud, slamming into the ground. _THUNK._

Of course, everyone clapped, cheered, celebrated. To an outsider, the firemen appeared to be genuinely thrilled at Montag’s success. He was a natural leader coming into his own, and his devoted followers applauded him. But that was not the way this world worked. Montag could see right through them: he could see the jealousy in their eyes, that bitter prickling feeling that arose because they had not been chosen. Not one of them was free from envy’s bloody clutches. It would have been no different if someone else had been picked; the fact that it was Montag was irrelevant. That was the problem with living for the sake of living: survival and compassion could not coexist.

As the illusion of goodwill faded, all the oxygen seemed to recede from the room, and Montag felt a wave of uneasy nausea overtake him. For years, he had worked with these people. Every day, he had seen them, talked with them, played cards with them, joked with them, burned with them. They were all the friends he had, neatly assembled into a single room. In that instant, standing in front of them, Montag realized that he never truly knew any of them. He struggled to think of something to say, but he was frozen in the moment. The room quickly moved on without him, returning to cards and conversation. “I—I have to go...” murmured Montag weakly, stumbling out of the room. Nobody seemed to notice. Nobody cared.

Down the long, lonely hallway fell Montag, grappling with disgust and fear and solitude all the way to the restroom. The door swung open, and Montag followed. He grabbed onto the edge of the black marble sink and bowed his head, fighting back the urge to vomit. How did this happen? When had negligence become an illusion of intimacy? A new feeling gnawed at Montag’s chest, one of dread and apprehension. What if the whole world was like this? In books, _love_ was cherished and revered, perhaps the most sacred thing on the planet. Love was important enough to have wars fought over it, and yet common enough that every man could obtain it. Surely such an impressive force couldn’t have vanished on such a massive scale.

And yet, perhaps that was the problem with love. It was too messy, too volatile, too quick to lead to heartbreak. It was a potent drug with too many addicts, a dangerous thing. At some point, people traded their affection for safety. _What a bargain!_ they must have exclaimed as they handed over their beating hearts in exchange for iron bars. The rich flavor of love was substituted with bland indifference, something the populace found easier to stomach. The individual became celebrated, even worshiped, until suddenly everyone became an individual. Humanity was drained of its brilliance until it turned pallid with detachment. One by one, the passions of the world were extinguished, until nothing remained but ice.

Montag met his own gaze in the mirror. He thought he looked different than he last remembered. His murky brown eyes had cleared, revealing an intelligence he had never noticed before. He found new words to describe his features: _chiseled_ jaw, _unruly_ hair, _creased_ face. Overwhelmingly, as he looked into the mirror, he saw _melancholy_. _Despair_. _Anguish_. He glanced down; his knuckles were white as bleach from gripping the counter. He might have laughed in a different situation: he had everything he wanted, and yet he still looked like shit. No, he corrected, he looked _miserable_. If only his past self could see him now. Would he even recognize himself? Would it even matter?

“Guy,” said a voice, startling Montag into looking away. Beatty stood in the doorway, concern etched into his handsome features. Behind him, Montag could hear the sounds of amusement coming from the rec room. His stomach twisted with something between hatred and sorrow, and for a second he thought he might vomit. “Are you all right?” asked Beatty softly. Montag could do little else but shake his head.

Beatty entered the room, locked the door behind him, started to approach Montag. The closer he got, the more worried he looked. “Jesus, Montag,” he muttered, cupping Montag’s head in his hands. “Did I do this?”

Montag’s heart threatened to break. Beatty had plenty to agonize over in his own life; Montag’s condition was just unnecessary torment. “No. No, of course not,” Montag insisted. In fact, he had nearly forgotten about the fight. 

Clearly, Beatty had not. He leaned forward, and their lips gently touched, curling into the compassionate curvature of a kiss. Time froze around the two firemen, sealed in a moment with nothing but each other and the unmistakable scent of kerosene. Montag felt his heartbeat drumming a slow and steady tempo, or was it Beatty’s? He couldn’t tell. Out of nowhere, a line of poetry lazily floated through his mind: _mouth-to-mouth—the torturer locking lips with the tortured to revive him for another round. An alarm rings—_ he couldn’t remember the rest. But who was the torturer and who was being tortured? How many rounds did they have left? He couldn’t take it; there were too many questions and a shortage of answers. Montag pulled away, and time resumed its miserable march. “I...need to go home,” said Montag, unable to keep a slight quaver out of his voice.

Beatty’s lips tightened into a line, and his blue eyes were saturated with worry. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I’m sorry.”

Montag shook his head. “It wasn’t you,” he mumbled, smoothly pushing Beatty’s hands from his face. He walked toward the door, his boots on the tile echoing like drums with each step.

“Then why are you so upset? What was it?” Beatty asked.

Montag gripped the cool metal door handle, a distinct contrast from the warmth of Beatty’s lips. He looked down at the floor, contemplating the grid of faded pastel-green tile beneath his feet. Years passed between the two firemen, the silence rising, falling, breathing like a living creature. They were intertwined in its tendrils, trapped until it grew to old age, withered, and died. Finally, Montag answered, “The world.” He exited the bathroom, leaving Beatty alone in the firehouse.

Montag surveyed his house from the outside. He had always been satisfied with it, never thinking about it for long enough to form a meaningful opinion. Now, he noticed the ugly shade of gray plastered on the outside, a contrast to the bright blue sky. He saw how small it was, not even two stories tall. The same height, he realized, as all the other houses in the neighborhood. In fact, more than just the height was the same; it seemed the street was filled with clones. There was nothing sophisticated about the architecture, nothing beautiful or garish or unique, nothing but what was necessary to be a house. This was Montag’s greatest possession, the fruit of his labors materialized. And it was the same as everyone else’s, Montag thought dismally.

He entered the house, the door creaking as it swung open and shut. On a different day, Montag would have made a mental note to oil the hinges, but today he didn’t care. He felt tired, so colossally exhausted, and all he wanted to do was go to bed. Maybe he would even take a book with him. Mildred wouldn’t like it, but she wouldn’t have to be there. She hadn’t even noticed he was home, probably too enchanted by the Family to give him any consideration.

And then Montag noticed something strange: the parlor wasn’t on. Usually, the house was filled with the voices of the fabricated Family, as warm and welcoming as the gentle heat of a candle. Mildred’s own grating voice would be heard now and then, intertwining with the Family’s charm like an acrid smoke. Montag had come home in the middle of the day. Surely Mildred should have been engrossed in a scene with the Family, but the house was void of any presence, digital or human.

“Mildred?” Montag called, his voice seemingly huge in the confines of the house. Immediately, he realized it was no good to call out. She had probably fallen asleep with her Seashells in, and she couldn’t hear him. Montag almost felt disappointed: he had expected to be left alone. It was ironic, really. Troubled as he was by the lack of companionship in the world, he couldn’t bear to let anyone near him, not today. Still, he had to tell her the news. She would want to hear.

The door to the bedroom was wide open, even though they always slept with the door closed. Uneasiness began to stir within Montag. _Not again_ , he thought. _Not now._ He entered the room slowly, reluctantly, dreading what he might find inside. And yet, he couldn’t stand not knowing. He had to see.

The bed was empty. It was cleanly made, just as it had been when he had left that morning. It was almost too perfect: the pillows were pristine in their placement, each exactly the volume they should be, and the covers were so straight Montag might cut himself on them. Even in the midst of eerie perfection, he nearly felt relieved. Mildred had gone out with friends, he told himself, and that’s why he couldn’t find her. She was out having a splendid time, and he was worried about nothing. Just a paranoid man who was haunted by the world.

But her car was in the garage. Even worse, her Seashells laid on her bedside table, powerless and silent. Mildred wouldn’t have gone anywhere without her Seashells. Montag had never tried them himself. Mildred had gone on and on about them, convinced that a pair of Seashells was the key to happiness and that if he just _tried_ them, he would be a different man. Perhaps that was why their relationship had never worked: neither could simply accept the other for what they were. Mildred had her Family, and eventually Montag found Beatty. Yet they had gone on, always pretending they were right for each other.

Montag was finished pretending. He let his eyes sink to the ground, just beneath the bedside table.

Her face was like a snow-covered island upon which rain might fall, but it felt no rain; over which clouds might pass their moving shadows, but she felt no shadow. Her eyes looked up at him, two pale moonstones buried in a creek of clear water over which the life of the world ran, not touching them. In her hand was the familiar shape of a pill bottle, completely empty. Nothing moved, not her hand or her chest or her lips or her eyes or her husband or the freezing air between them. She must had done it early in the day, just after Montag had left for work. She knew he wouldn’t be home in time to save her again. This time, she was dead.

Strangely enough, Montag thought only of Beatty.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is a short chapter, the next one will make up for it i promise

The night sky settled over the horizon, blackness leaking through the windows like ink, and yet Montag did not want to turn on the lights. They had brought a machine, different from the one he was used to, with its cobra-like body and the great Eye that saw all. No, this new machine was more like a dragon. They scooped up her body in its great maw, its teeth locking with a sharp _clack!_ to signal the finality of it, to warn that this time, there would be no coming back. An operator turned a few dials on its sleek metal body, and its belly began to grumble and groan. Wisps of smoke escaped from a pipe, and Montag had realized they were burning her. He was the same as this dragon; both were beings of fire and ash, of destruction and death.

Once the process was finished, they packed up the machine and simply left. There were no mutterings of sympathy, no traces of consolation, not a single utterance of compassion. Montag didn’t mind. He felt as if he had hardly known her, not really. Not personally, in any case. For a while, he had tried to remember milestones in their relationship: where they had first met, where he had proposed, when he had decided he truly loved her. He couldn’t recall any of it. Instead, he came to the grim realization that he had never loved her. He thought he had, but he was young and eager to fulfill dreams others had encouraged. Mildred had simply been another jewel in the coveted crown of a normal, comfortable life. He hadn’t wanted her for who she was, but what she represented.

And what a shame. Montag wondered if she would still be alive if he hadn’t been so selfish. He felt no sadness, but the guilt he bore threatened to snap his spine, to grind him into the ground and fill his lungs with earth until his corpse lay there, shattered and broken, devoid of life and color. Was she ever in love with him, and had he broken her heart? Or was it that she had her own ambitions for her life and he hadn’t played his role to her satisfaction? He desperately searched for somewhere to place the blame. Had the Family driven her to madness, until she could no longer tolerate herself? Perhaps it had been the Seashells, always whispering thoughts in her ear, a barrage of ideas and influence she lacked the strength to withstand. Or maybe she was doomed from the start, her miserable demise writ in the very stars above Montag’s head.

And yet, no matter how he tried, he could not dislodge the guilt from his shoulders. Mildred’s death was his fault, and it was his own burden to bear. He knew that she died a long time ago, perhaps even years before today. Life held no joy for her; ever her husband, her sacred partner, had cast her aside, assuming she would always be there. Montag had failed in his duties, and now he was paying the price. _If we lose love and self-respect for each other, this is how we finally die_ , he thought, the quote flowing through his mind like an icy river, winding and painful. _Maybe it’s also how we murder those we hold dear,_ he reasoned.

But the words brought another realization: there were books in the house. How long had his collection been lost in the vents of the air-conditioning system, sitting neglected while the voices of the Family rang loud? Montag couldn’t recall the last time he had touched even one of them. He had lacked the courage to reveal them in Mildred’s lurking shadow, her treacherous presence always found throughout the house. Now, Montag was alone. He could set the books free and read without end. What a strange thought that was! To read as much as he wanted, uninterrupted, seemed like a fantasy never to be fulfilled, something to dream about occasionally and sigh and wish that life were better. Even with Beatty, he had to limit his reading to a few hours at most. But now? Montag was liberated, and so were the books. _His_ books.

For the first time since the dragon had come hours ago, Montag left the bedroom. He went straight to the grille on the ceiling, and he could feel the cool air gently brush his fingers as he reached up to remove it. It was a movement both foreign and familiar: something he had imagined so often, yet never dared to perform. The grille detached from the ceiling with the smallest _click_ , and Montag placed it on the ground. Slowly, his hand reached into the vent. For an instant, he nearly doubted the books were really there, but suddenly his fingers grazed a slick, cool cover, and he felt a shiver crawl down his spine. Eagerly, Montag plucked the book from its forbidden perch. It was a paperback, and whatever name belonged to it had been scorched off long ago. Montag didn’t care. He took it into the silent parlor, sat on the abandoned couch, and savored the new atmosphere before finally allowing himself to open the pages. He looked down, eyes skimming the page, and read:

_Q: Why shouldn’t you write with a broken pencil?_

_A: It’s pointless._

What? That couldn’t be right. Montag looked further down the page, expecting to find a paragraph filled with wisdom and comfort. Instead, he found:

_Q: Did you hear about the writer who used too many words?_

_A: Yeah, he was sentenced to death._

Against his will, a chuckle escaped Montag’s lips. He didn’t entirely understand the nature of this particular book, and he felt that he should be almost disgusted by it. After all, this could hardly be considered literature. There was no depth, no deeper meaning to plunge into and ponder. And yet, there was a certain charm to this book. Despite everything else Montag had read, he could not deny this book its clever humor, it expert simplicity, its crude mastery of language. It continued:

_Q: What building has the most stories?_

_A: The library._

The more he read, the more Montag’s misgivings were replaced with genuine enjoyment. After a few pages, he began to truly laugh, a deep and hearty sound that was rarely heard. In fact, Montag couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. It was refreshing; suddenly, he felt like a new man, full of giddy joy and youthful hope. Pun after pun, he laughed until tears rolled down his eyes, and the crushing guilt he had so recently borne was lifted from his shoulders. His troubles vanished, and for the first time in months he felt as if everything would be all right. For the first time, whatever the future may hold, he felt that he could handle it.

Out of nowhere, the shrill sound of the telephone reverberated through the house, reminding Montag of the violent sound of gunfire. The thought occurred to pick it up, and yet the book called to him, begging him not to leave. Time seemed to freeze, and Montag was left with a choice. Which plea would he answer: the harsh, demanding cry of the telephone or the sweet, soft purr of the book nestled in his hands?

It was no choice at all. _After all_ , he told himself, _everything will be fine._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide, major character death

The next morning, Montag woke in his too-empty bed in his too-empty house, and yet his heart felt fuller than it had in days. As he was getting ready, occasionally a joke from the book whispered itself into his ear, and Montag would enjoy an indulgent chuckle. His commute to the firehouse was bright, and the grass was greener and the sky was bluer than it had been the day before. Indeed, when he arrived at the firehouse, the building seemed pleasant, even beautiful, and Montag found himself appreciating the deep red of its brick walls and the jet black of its metal roof, gleaming in the morning sun. Despite everything, Montag felt cheerful this morning.

He was hardly eager to get to work, of course. If burning books had been a crime to him before, it was a sin now, and Montag was loathe to blaspheme against his newfound gods. No, the real joy to be found in the firehouse was his beloved Beatty. Montag was keen to visit the Captain’s office and share his experience with the joke book, never mind the fact that Mildred was dead.

But when he stepped into the office, Beatty was nowhere to be found. Not that Montag felt particularly perturbed; the Captain took days off more and more often as the cancer slowly squeezed the life out of him, like a snake curled around his throat. Dimly, Montag recalled an evening in the library, both firemen at ease in their armchairs, content in the company of each other. Beatty read from a book in thick, smoky tones, and Montag breathed in every word. The language was difficult, the way an ancient being might have spoken, hardly comprehendible to Montag. And yet there was one line that haunted him, especially on days like today, when Beatty was gone and Montag was left with words, only words. “When did ever a dragon die of a serpent’s poison?” he muttered to himself, although the words brought him more anxiety than comfort.

Montag left the Captain’s office and walked down the hall to the rec room, where Stoneman, Black, and a few other firemen were playing a round of poker, money stacked neatly on the table, smoke spewing from fat cigars in their mouths. As Montag approached, the players eyed him, and Stoneman gave a lazy greeting. “Hey, Captain. Want me to deal you in?”

The words were so casual, so unassuming, and yet Montag was jolted by them, as if he had just been struck by a particularly nasty bolt of lightning. “Not Captain yet, Stoneman,” he said with an uneasy chuckle. “The Captain’s probably just taking the day off to rest, like he does from time to time.”

If the words before were lightning, then what came next was a storm, a maelstrom in which Montag found himself stranded. “You haven’t heard?” asked Stoneman, after sharing a glance with the other poker players. “Beatty was rushed to the hospital last night. They called the station to let all of us know. It sounded like he wasn’t leaving anytime soon, either.”

“Yeah, the fucker’s probably dead by now,” Black said dispassionately. “Anyway, the way we all saw it, you’re the new Captain now.”

And suddenly Montag heard a distorted voice in his ear, the jarring, grating, rasping sound of the ringing of a telephone, like a cry in the dark that fell on ears both deaf and dumb. Montag’s stomach morphed into a nest of vipers, deadly in distress, and his spine froze into solid ice, sending chills throughout his body. His throat grew dry and his chest grew tight, sending him into a dizzy panic that threatened to suffocate him. With the type of horror reserved only for ghosts and death, Montag realized that the call from last night, the call that had seemed so unimportant, the call he had chosen to ignore, had been from Beatty.

And suddenly the station became a vacuum, devoid of air, devoid of life, devoid of hope, and Montag knew that he could not survive there any longer. His frightened eyes glanced at each of the poker players, before whom stood not a Captain, but a coward, a man who thought too much and felt even more, someone who could never walk among them, let alone hope to lead them. What a fool he had been, to think everything would be fine! He had chosen books over Beatty, and look what he had ended up with: words, words, words, and a station full of people that held no respect for him or his lover or the death that stood between them. _Fire and powder_ , thought Montag, but he couldn’t remember the rest of the quote, what was it? Beatty would know. Beatty always knew. _Fire and powder._

“I—I have to go,” said Montag, the words hollow, pathetic, nothing to the men that were seated before him. Montag didn’t care, didn’t even wait for their reactions. He ran through the hall, past the green-eyed Hound, past the great orange Salamander, past everything he had ever known. He left the station; the black iron door clanged shut behind him.

And just like that, Montag knew he could never go back.

The hospital was barren, overwhelmingly sterile, with walls as white as snow and floors the color of paper. There was no smell in the air, and yet every time Montag took a breath he could sense the metallic odor of chemicals and blood. Doctors hurried past, clipboards in hand, white lab coats fluttering like birds. They paid no attention to Montag, who sat in a chair in a waiting room. He was the only one there. The room was cold, and the longer he waited, the more his fingers hurt, his bones aching for warmth. A television in the room played a series of commercials over and over again, each with their own familiar jingle, filling the air with music not for beauty’s sake, but for the whims of corporations. The waiting room was, overwhelmingly, hollow.

And then the commercials halted, and a voice on the PA came on, lifeless, with no soul behind it, no emotion. It was the voice of a machine, of a stone. “Visitor…ONE…you may proceed to room…ONE…ONE…SIX.”

Montag assumed it was talking about him, as there weren’t any other visitors in the waiting room. He rose from his seat and exited the waiting room, a feeling of dread weighing down his troubled heart.

The hallway was long, longer than any other hallway Montag had ever encountered. The doors stretched on and on, numbered from infinity to zero in dull gray numbers. His steps echoed in the chamber like the deep, heavy beats of a bass drum, while his heart refused to follow the tempo, racing ever onwards. The lights in the ceiling bathed the corridor in too-bright fluorescent light, making the white walls appear even more stark and unwelcoming and erasing any comfort Montag might have found. He followed the endless doors, both incredibly close and impossibly far away from number 116, certain that he would never arrive in time. In Montag’s mind, the numbers were a countdown, each door he passed another step closer to the terror of uncertainty, each second another opportunity to imagine Beatty’s demise. He tried to shake the images from his head, but nothing else would come, nothing but distant memories and broken phrases that meant nothing, absolutely nothing. _Are you happy?_ asked Clarisse McClellan, her voice flippant, her eyes filled with curiosity. Montag’s mind showcased his worst fear: Beatty lying in bed, pale, vulnerable, dead, ready to be snapped up by the mechanical Dragon, burned just as mercilessly as he had once burned books. _Are you happy?_ Clarisse asked again, and again, and again, narrating Montag’s nightmare with just three simple, stupid words.

“No! No, I’m not fucking happy! You and Mildred and now Beatty too, haven’t they taken enough? Get out! Get out! GET OUT!” Montag cried in agony, clutching his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He was heard by everyone and no one, and he felt as though he was surrounded by ghosts.

By the time he reached room 116, years had passed in the span of minutes, and Montag had grown decades older. He waited outside the door, his clever hands at a loss for what to do. Should he knock? Open the door? Do both? He couldn’t bear to find out what was behind the door, but he couldn’t stand waiting in the hall, either. His fingers twitched, nearly numb from the cold, and Montag found himself thinking of fire, of powder, and what might occur if the two were to meet. Montag’s fingers curled into a fist, and his lungs inhaled a gust of stiff, stale air. Beatty was fire, Montag was powder, and they desperately needed to kiss, to consume. Montag’s hand turned the handle and opened the door.

The room was small, hardly bigger than a closet, just large enough to house a bed and a machine on each side. The machine on Montag’s left held a tank of clear liquid, which was pumped into flesh through a long plastic tube, entering the body with a needle, like the fangs of a snake. On the right was a computer that listed number upon number, each screen flashing a different color, each fluctuation accompanied by an electronic beep, displaying everything a doctor might need to know, possibly more.

On the bed in between laid Beatty. He looked like a corpse that wasn’t quite dead, a breathing, feeling being that wasn’t alive, not fully. His skin had turned sallow and gaunt, and his once-shining blond hair was now dull and garish. Montag took in the bones protruding from his once-deft hands, the raggedness of his once-steady breathing, the blood staining the once-white sheets. There was hollowness in Beatty’s cheeks and bags under Beatty’s eyes, eyes that, despite everything, still shone brilliantly with life. No, maybe not life, but — rage.

“Where the _hell_ were you?” Beatty growled, his voice full of sparks, smoke billowing from his words.

“I…” Montag began, but Beatty cut him off.

“No, don’t answer. You didn’t feel like it last night; why should you deserve to do so now?” Beatty paused, and to Montag’s horror, tears began to fall from the Captain’s eyes. “You see, Montag, I thought you were different. I thought you had potential, and that if I showed you how, you could think, feel, love. But you’re just like the others, aren’t you? ‘Betrayal is the only truth that sticks,’ Montag. I see the truth now, and I say: ‘Et tu, Brute?’”

Beatty’s tone changed, and his voice was no longer filled with anger, but with mocking derision. “And what are you doing here now, Montag? Aren’t you supposed to be at the station? Staying was the one thing I asked of you, and you couldn’t even do that. What are the other firemen to think? How are they going to respect you now? I know the answer, Montag, and it’s that they won’t. They’ve probably already forgotten about you. I envy them. To you, there are no consequences and no responsibilities. Except that there are. But let's not talk about them, eh? By the time the consequences catch up with you, it's too late, isn't it, Montag?”

Montag took Beatty’s blows as they came, one-by-one, pounding Montag’s heart into dust, into ash. Beatty deserved to be outraged, and Montag deserved whatever punishment he was given, but as he took every slap in the face, every punch to the gut, every knife in the back, he couldn’t help but feel more and more empty. When Beatty stopped, readying his next assault, Montag knew he had to say the only thought left within him. His voice was soft, softer than a twilight breeze, softer than the feeling of dandelions that rubbed beneath his chin. His voice was soft, and yet it was hard to speak, perhaps harder than it had ever been to say anything.

But he had to say it.

“Mildred died.”

The words were boulders rolling off his tongue, smashing into the ground with astounding force, jarring Beatty and Montag and the entire world around them. They were huge, impossible to avoid or ignore, and once they had been spoken, they caused an avalanche.

“It was a suicide. She always had trouble sleeping, and so she took these tablets to help her fall asleep, but she must have taken them all at once, it’s not like she hadn’t done it before, but this time she waited until I was at work, so I wouldn’t know she had taken them all until it was too late, I couldn’t call the hospital to save her, and so I came home that day, and she was dead in our bedroom. And I — I started reading and I heard the phone, but I didn’t think about it, and…” Montag’s voice cracked, like a log that had been burning for too long. “I thought I had lost you too.”

The room smelled like metal. There was no trace of kerosene, for once. The temperature was freezing, perhaps below freezing. Montag felt as if he was standing chest-deep in snow.

“Jesus, Guy,” Beatty said, his voice thick with shame, his eyes filled with compassion. “I’m sorry.”

Montag’s heart lifted a bit, rising on the warmth of Beatty’s voice, far more bearable than his fiery wrath. It had felt good to tell Beatty about Mildred, and yet Montag knew he still had more to say. “No, I’m sorry. I should have paid more attention last night, and I shouldn’t have left the station today. I’ve completely ruined your plans to have me be Captain, let alone our relationship. I’m so sorry.”

Tears now flowed from the eyes of both firemen, dousing the flames that raged within them and filling the room with warm, tender smoke. Still, Beatty smiled ruefully, an expression borne more out of pity than humor, and replied, “You’ve ruined nothing, Montag. I’m sorry for losing my temper, and I’m sorry for being such a fool. I should have known something was wrong, but I…” Beatty’s voice choked up, and suddenly Montag could not think of a creature ever as vulnerable as the one that lay before him. “I was so afraid of dying. ‘How strange this fear of death is!’ said George MacDonald. ‘We are never frightened at a sunset.’ 

For the longest time, I agreed. But I had never been so close before, not until last night, and after that, well…I’ve been terrified. The doctors say I have a week to live at best, and at worst? I should have died already. But I don’t want to die, Montag, I really, really don’t. Especially alone in this suffocating room, surrounded by these fucking machines.” He sighed. “I let my fear get the best of me. I’m sorry, Montag.”

 _Enough_. Montag couldn’t stand this endless cycle of apologies and regret, round and round like a whirlpool, not when they had such little time left. He took one step forward, and then another, and then another after that, until he reached the side of the bed. Gingerly, he took Beatty’s hand in his own, lifted it up, and placed his warm lips against the cool, pale skin in a kiss as gentle as ash floating in a summer breeze. “Stop apologizing,” chided Montag, his lips softly curving into a content smile.

Beatty smiled back, nodding weakly. “You’re right. You are here now, and so am I, and that is all that matters.”

The next day, Beatty was released from the hospital, after the doctors looked at the numbers on the computer’s display and decided he had been pumped full of the right amount of chemicals. He was driven home in a black-and-yellow beetle that raced through the streets, and when he arrived, Montag was waiting for him, as he had nowhere else to go. The beetle raced off as soon as Beatty’s foot hit the pavement, and Montag helped the Captain inside. “Help me to the library, won’t you?” Beatty requested. “If I’m going to die, I want to be among my books.”

And so Montag helped him into the parlor, past the fake walls, down the stairs and into the library, where they had grown so close, a place that Montag dreamed about when he wasn’t there. Today, however, the library felt more like a crypt, and Beatty like a wayward ghost returning to his resting place. Montag felt uneasy; his insides smoldered with anxiety, although he didn’t know what fueled it. Was it the fact that Beatty was so close to death, or that the Beatty he loved seemed to have already died? After all, the person he led to the library was hardly his Captain. This Beatty was weak, quiet in a way Beatty had never been, almost as if he had retreated within himself. The familiar scent of kerosene had been driven out by the piercing, rank odor of metal, and Beatty’s eyes lacked the spark that they had always held. In some ways, the person Montag led to the library was Beatty’s corpse, and Death was simply running a few days late.

Still, Montag would not leave him. He couldn’t; as he and Beatty had read, _if instead of a gem, or even a flower, we should cast the gift of a loving thought into the heart of a friend, that would be giving as the angels give._ Beatty was far more than just a friend, and Montag owed him far, far more than just a loving thought. His presence was the least he could give.

Montag lead Beatty to the chairs that waited between the shelves of the vast library, and Montag realized they had been greater friends to him than the men at the station had ever been. Memories of the past few weeks he and Beatty had spent sitting in those chairs assailed him, and Montag fought off the attack as best he could. He couldn’t lose himself in the past, and he didn’t dare think of the future; he had to stay in the present, for Beatty’s sake. “Would you like to read? Or maybe sit and rest a while?” Montag asked as Beatty settled himself in his chair, the supple fabric welcoming the Captain like a grave welcoming a body. “Whatever would make you feel best, of course.”

“I…” Beatty’s voice, once as smooth as a plume of smoke, was suddenly stolen away by a fit of violent coughing. He wrestled for control, until finally he straightened, wiping his lips on his sleeve. “Have a seat, Montag.”

Montag did as he was told, sitting but not resting, watching Beatty with worried intensity.

Beatty frowned, his pale skin creasing, his brow furrowing. He thought for a moment, closing his eyes, and then spoke. “‘Each of us is born with a box of matches inside us, but we can’t strike them all by ourselves.’ Have I shared that quote with you before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good, I thought not. You see, for the longest time, I hated that quote. I love my books, and the words within them, but occasionally we have our disagreements. Those words and I had quite a squabble, and although I thought of them often, I never wanted to acknowledge that they meant something. I lit fires for a living, for God’s sake! What matches could possibly hope to escape me?

Beatty sighed, and he looked almost…ashamed. “Before I became sick, I had been watching you for some time, Montag. Whenever we were out on a call, I kept an eye on you. You always rescued a book or two. I had seen other firemen take books before, but I had never seen any with an itch quite as insatiable as yours. I never knew if you were reading them or not, or if they were just souvenirs, memories of each house burned.

“I was never much of a gambler, but when I was diagnosed, I decided to take a chance. Do you remember that day, Montag? The day we first kissed? That wasn’t my intention, when I first invited you into my office, but I’m glad it happened. That day changed my life. When our lips met, something was enkindled inside of me, something that has remained lit to this very day. It was that day that I thought of that quote, and realized I was wrong. Suddenly, I knew that you were the one who would light every match, start every fire, and breathe in the smoke with me.” Beatty began to cough again, but not for long; he quashed his illness with an iron will, and for a moment he was no longer a dying man, but a dragon once more. “So thank you, Montag, for making me into more than just a box of matches. I love you more surely than smoke follows fire, and I know that I would follow you anywhere. My only regret is, well…” His eyes flared with mischief, and a devilish smile played on his lips, and for a moment, he looked more like Beatty than he had since coming home. “My only regrets are the tumors growing in my lungs, but those are hardly your fault, eh?” He laughed, and Montag found himself laughing with him, and suddenly the room was filled with life and vigor, fire and smoke.

But the laughing led to coughing, and Beatty hunched over in his chair, sending spots of blood onto the tidy fabric with each heave of his chest. Slowly, Beatty recovered, like the sun first peeking out behind receding storm clouds. Still, the sky was gray, and Beatty looked no better. “Read to me, won’t you?” Beatty asked, his eyes masking a sort of pitiful sorrow. “We were in the middle of Tolstoy, I believe. I’d like very much to continue.”

Normally it was Beatty who read and Montag who listened, but Montag didn’t mind a role reversal, especially considering Beatty’s current condition. He picked up the tome off of the nearest bookshelf, marveling at its weight in his hands. He wondered how many words one would have to use in order to complete such a novel, more brick than book. Surely more than might be used in a lifetime, maybe even two! Carefully, he nudged open the pages until he reached the spot where a red piece of cloth, their bookmark, was nestled. He glanced at the words on the page, black on white, truth on ignorance, until he remembered where they had left off the last time they had read together. He breathed in, savoring the soft, earthy smell of the library, and began to read.

Oh, how he loved to read aloud! His voice was a vessel that carried him far, far away, to a grand estate in a country that no longer existed. He was a fly on the wall, observing characters that he brought to life, speaking and describing and arguing, all with his voice, so that he was no longer an observer, but part of the characters themselves. In a different life, Montag might have been an actor, performing the finest works from high on his stage, captivating the audience with soulful monologues and brilliant performances. Or perhaps he might have been a writer himself, telling tales of magnificent heroes and dastardly villains of his own creation, commenting on his world and the world around him with descriptions so beautiful and dialogue so convincing the reader would be enveloped in his fiction.

Or maybe none of that could happen at all, and instead Beatty would be remarkably, miraculously, undeniably free of cancer.

Beatty coughed again, a grim reminder of reality, and Montag was ripped from the world of princes and palaces to find himself in his own world once more. Beatty waved his hand, bidding Montag continue, and continue Montag did, despite the pain that ravaged his lover. If Beatty wanted him to read, then he would read.

_Pierre felt awkward and even oppressed in his friend’s company. He fell silent._

_“Well, the thing is, dear heart,” said Prince Andrei, who obviously also felt oppressed and embarrassed with his visitor, “I’m on bivouac here, I’ve just come to have a look. And tonight I’m going to my sister’s. I’ll introduce you to them. But it seems you know her,” he said, obviously entertaining a visitor with whom he no longer felt anything in common. “We’ll go after dinner. And now would you like to look over my estate?”_

_They went out and spent the time before dinner discussing political news and mutual acquaintances, like people who have little closeness to each other. Prince Andrei showed some animation and interest only when he talked about the new estate he was setting up and his construction projects, but here, too, in the midst of the conversation, on the scaffolding, as Prince Andrei was describing to Pierre the future layout of the house, he suddenly stopped. “However, there’s nothing interesting in it, let’s have dinner and go.”_

Montag took a breath to continue and was overcome by the rancid smell of metal and death. He cleared his throat and glanced over at Beatty, who was as pale as the clouds in the sky. Their eyes met, and although Beatty looked far from himself, Montag continued the story.

_Over dinner the conversation turned to Pierre’s marriage._

_“I was very surprised when I heard of it,” said Prince Andrei._

_Pierre blushed, as he always blushed about that, and said hastily, “Some day I’ll tell you how it all happened. But, you know, it’s all over, and forever.”_

_“Forever?” said Prince Andrei. “Nothing is forever.”_

Beatty coughed, and Montag tensed, watching his lover with an intense worry. After a minute or so, Beatty waved his hand, signaling Montag to continue.

_“But you do know how it all ended? You heard about the duel?”_

_“Yes, you went through that, too.”_

_“The one thing I thank God for is that I didn’t kill the man,” said Pierre._

_“Why so?” asked Prince Andrei. “It’s even very good to kill a vicious dog.”_

_“No, to kill a man is bad, it’s wrong…”_

_“Why is it wrong?” Prince Andrei repeated. “It’s not given to people to judge what’s right or wrong. People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more so than in what they consider right and wrong.”_

More coughing. More watching. More reading.

_“What’s evil for another person is wrong,” said Pierre, pleased to feel that for the first time since his arrival Prince Andrei was becoming animated and was beginning to talk and wanted to speak out everything that had made him the way he was now._

_“But who has told you what’s evil for another person?” he asked._

_“Evil? Evil?” said Pierre. “We all know what’s evil for us.”_

_“Yes, we know, but what I know as evil for myself, I cannot do to another person,” Prince Andrei was speaking more and more animatedly, clearly wishing to voice his new view of things to Pierre. He spoke in French. “Je ne connais dans la vie que deux maux bien reels: c’est le remords et la maladie. Il n’est de bien que l’absence de ces maux. To live for myself, only avoiding these two evils — that is all my wisdom now.”_

“Montag.” Beatty’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, a sound that made Montag think of a doused fire. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, stark against the whiteness of his skin, and his eyes were glassy, no longer the brilliant blue they once were.

The book fell from Montag’s hands, and its pages scattered against the floor like a flock of doves. “My God — are you all right?”

Beatty shook his head, a woeful look in his cloudy eyes. “Come here. I need to—” He was interrupted by another bout of coughing, as violent as if Death himself was bludgeoning his chest. The coughs were accompanied by an obscene gurgling sound from deep within Beatty’s chest, and the smell of something metallic. Long gone was the scent of kerosene and the comforts that went with it. “I need to tell you something.”

Montag was upon him in an instant, the book less than a distant memory in his mind. He knew that Beatty was sick, of course, but didn’t realize how dire his situation was until he felt the Captain’s skin, cold as ice. Beatty’s eyes seemed to peer past Montag, looking at…what, exactly? Perhaps nothing at all. Or, perhaps, at everything; perhaps Beatty was staring into the eyes of Death, begging for a few more minutes. In any case, Montag knew one thing: Beatty was dying. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t do this to me.”

A half smile flickered over Beatty’s lips, as sudden as a spark, as the Captain grasped Montag’s hand in his. Montag knelt down and leaned in, cupping Beatty’s face with his free hand. Desperation whirled inside of him, more vicious than a cyclone, more harrowing than murder. “Don’t leave me here,” pleaded Montag, tears softly falling from his cheeks. “I can’t live without you. You’re all I have left. What — what am I going to do?”

“I believe in you, Guy,” Beatty breathed, unable to mask the wheeze in his voice, not that Montag cared. “No matter what happens, I want you to know—” He coughed, a gruesome, guttural sound, and blood oozed freely from his mouth. Nevertheless, Beatty grimaced and, after a moment, spoke. “‘It has made me better, loving you.’”

And Beatty was gone.

“No. No, no, no,” Montag whimpered, shaking his friend, his Captain, his lover, his soulmate. “Beatty, no. No! Don’t leave me here! Don’t…”

Great sobs wracked Montag’s body, just like the coughs had done to Beatty, overtaking his muscular frame and utterly debilitating him. Montag sunk to the floor, laying on his side, his grief too heavy to bear. He closed his eyes and wept as rage, sorrow, remorse, regret, yearning rampaged through him, as potent and ferocious as a wildfire. His mind was empty, overtaken by the raw power and pain of emotion. He was a ship lost at sea, with no wind to guide him home; he was utterly, completely without words.

Montag didn’t know how long he laid on the ground, or when he finally opened his eyes, but he knew that the moment he laid eyes on the book, he knew what he was going to do. He longed for Beatty to be alive, but that wasn’t going to happen. So what was to happen next? Beatty’s body was one problem to have; his body in the middle of a vast library was another altogether. He was going to be burned, and Montag could do nothing to stop it.

Unless Montag was the one who burned him. As much as Montag loved the books, he knew he would never read again, not without Beatty, certainly not on his own, without anyone to share his forbidden knowledge with. How fitting, then, that Montag would say goodbye to Beatty in the same way they met: by burning, burning together. He knew where Beatty kept kerosene and where he kept matches, and quickly, with an agency Montag had never felt before, he retrieved both items. He reveled in the familiar scent, and was eager to witness the passion they brought together. _Fire and powder,_ he thought, _which as they kiss, consume._

And they would have plenty to consume. Montag returned to the basement, picked up the book off the floor, and placed it in Beatty’s lap. He would never know how it ended, but he didn’t mind. Perhaps some stories were best left untold. Perhaps it was best the characters were laid to rest, just as Beatty was. Perhaps Montag was never meant to know the ending.

But Montag did not stop with a single book. He walked through the library, bidding each unread book goodbye, wishing the stories left within them well in their next life. Books that Montag and Beatty had read together, however, and there were plenty, Montag plucked off of the shelves and into his hands, grasping them with an intensity that matched flame. Book after book, story after story, idea after idea, he carried back to the body of his lover, gingerly placing each tome around the chair, until eventually, a pile had been built. No, pile wasn’t the right word. It was a pyre, a funeral pyre, and Montag would have the honor of lighting it, sending Beatty into the afterlife once and for all.

The kerosene flowed from the bottle eagerly, hungry to consume. Its fumes wafted up, up, up, until they circled the library like vultures, ready to feast on the words of the dead. Montag breathed in the stench until his lungs were full of it, and what might have made another man gag made Montag’s heart bloom with joy. _Soon_ , he thought, as he doused the room with liquid flame, waiting for a catalyst that would begin an inferno. When the bottle was empty, he tossed it to the side. It would be caught up in the blaze, just as everything else in the basement. His hands lit a match, and he watched the flame flicker, a spark caught in his hands. What was it that Beatty had said, so long ago, the first day in his office? _What is there about fire that’s so lovely? No matter what age we are, what draws us to it?_

Montag remembered the answer as clearly as everything else that day: _If you let it go, it’d burn our lifetimes out._ It was only at this moment, holding the match in his hands, that Montag knew that Beatty had been absolutely right. He smiled a madman’s grin and, his mind and his hands working in tandem, for once, he let it go.

The fire bloomed like a rose, growing from a seed to a flower to a garden in the blink of an eye, consuming the world around it. Fire was the most avid reader of all, swallowing every paragraph, every page, every tale in the blink of an eye, still hungry for more. Standing next to the pyre, Montag smiled. He felt the heat against his skin, intense and unbearable, hotter than any flame he had felt before. The fire crept up his legs, across his chest, down his arms, into his clever hands. He was being burned, just as Beatty and the books were being burned, and yet he felt no pain worse than the loss of his beloved. The inferno raged on, and just as it took words off the page, it took words from Montag’s mind, until he was left with nothing, nothing but inexpressible emotion. And yet there was once piece of knowledge even the fire could not take from him, an instinct so base, so sacred that it refused to be wiped from his mind, the foundation that Montag had built his life upon, and that now, in his final moments, gave him comfort:

It was a pleasure to burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhh i wrote this in high school after reading Fahrenheit 451 for my English class and absolutely hating it. fast-forward 17000 words and i ended up with something that i'm still really proud of and glad i wrote?? wack
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoyed this, i don't remember much of what happens or anything but comments/criticisms are welcome and appreciated! i'd love to do a series of gay reimaginings of classic novels (probably not as dark as this one gets) so let me know if that would interest you!
> 
> thanks for reading!!


	7. Bonus: Gallery of Quotes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are all the quotes used throughout the story, with the parts actually used in bold.

“ **The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.** The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.” -Elie Wiesel

“ **Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.** And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.” -William Shakespeare

 **“** **Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.”** -Mahatma Gandhi

 **“All great and precious things are lonely.”** -John Steinbeck

 **“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”** -Ernest Hemingway

 **“Nothing unites two people so completely, especially if, like you and me, all they have is words.”** -Franz Kafka

 **“A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.”** -Lao Tzu

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because **the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.** Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” -Roald Dahl

 **“All this happened…so it goes.”** -Kurt Vonnegut ( _Slaughterhouse-Five_ )

“The fear of death follows from the fear of life. **A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.** ” -Mark Twain

 **“Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.”** -Napoleon Bonaparte

“A shadow even darkness must pass. **A new day will come and when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer.** Those were the stories that stayed with you, that meant something even if you were to small to understand why. But I think Mr. Frodo, I do understand.” -JRR Tolkien

 **“Fear both the heat and the cold of your heart, and try to have patience, if you can.”** -JRR Tolkien

“But we in it shall be remembered — we few, we happy few, we **band of brothers** , for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.” -William Shakespeare

“To me, the thing that is worse than death is betrayal. **You see, I could conceive death, but I could not conceive betrayal.** ” -Malcolm X

"Keep love in your heart. **A life without [love] is like a sunless garden** when the flowers are dead. The consciousness of loving and being loved brings warmth and richness to life that nothing else can bring." -Oscar Wilde

 **“Those who surrender liberty for security deserve neither one!”** -Benjamin Franklin (kind of)

 **“In the small matters trust the mind, in the large ones the heart.”** -Sigmund Freud

“…I'm not going to hurt you with, and who asks how often **mouth-to-mouth-the torturer locking lips with the tortured. to revive him for another round. An alarm rings** to wake the thrush for the next threat, thus serving the species for survival of the fittest…” -Barbara Ras

 **“If we lose love and self-respect for each other, this is how we finally die.”** -Maya Angelou

 **“‘When did ever a dragon die of a serpent’s poison?’** said he. ‘But take back thy poison! Thou art not rich enough to make me a present of it.’” -Friedrich Nietzsche

“These violent delights have violent ends, like **fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume.** ” -William Shakespeare

 **“Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.”** -Arthur Miller

 **“Et tu, Brute?”** -William Shakespeare

 **“How strange this fear of death is! We are never frightened at a sunset**.” -George MacDonald

 **“If instead of a gem, or even a flower, we should cast the gift of a loving thought into the heart of a friend, that would be giving as the angels give.”** -George MacDonald

“ **Each of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we can't strike them all by ourselves** ; we need oxygen and a candle to help. In this case, the oxygen for example, would come from the breath of the person you love; the candle would be any kind of food, music, caress, word, or sound that engenders the explosion that lights one of the matches. For a moment we are dazzled by an intense emotion. A pleasant warmth grows within us, fading slowly as time goes by, until a new explosion comes along to revive it. Each person has to discover what will set off those explosions in order to live, since the combustion that occurs when one of them is ignited is what nourishes the soul. That fire, in short, is its food. If one doesn't find out in time what will set off these explosions, the box of matches dampens, and not a single match will ever be lighted.” -Laura Esquivel (hey that's the name of the fic!)

 **“Pierre felt awkward…that is all my wisdom now.”** -Leo Tolstoy ( _War and Peace_ )

“ **It has made me better loving you**... it has made me wiser, and easier, and brighter. I used to want a great many things before, and to be angry that I did not have them. Theoretically, I was satisfied. I flattered myself that I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to have morbid sterile hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I really am satisfied, because I can’t think of anything better. It’s just as when one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight, and suddenly the lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life, and finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it properly I see that it’s a delightful story.” -Henry James


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